Distorted
by animefan4eva5
Summary: He lives in a distorted world of grey fog, the faces of the people he had failed to protect and their accusing voices. No one can help him now. It is too late. Lucas-centric, post-seventh-needle, rated T for suicide and self-harm.


**A/N: OMG GUYS! MY BIRTHDAY IS IN TWELVE DAYS! I'LL FINALLY HAVE THE RIGHT TO PUT 'TEEN' AT THE END OF MY AGE NUMBER! So, in the celebrating of this occasion, I have written another angsty post-seventh-needle oneshot centred on Lucas! I really should stop writing these, but I can't help it, new ideas pop into my head almost every five seconds! After all, what's a twelve (soon to be thirteen) year old got to entertain herself in cruel world like this~? It's like I'm living in a desert of school, homework and nagging parents. And my oasis is this lovely, black HP laptop with star stickers all over it. Anyway, enough of my chattering, I should get on with this story before all my ideas fly right out my other ear. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Oh god. Don't even get me started about what would change in Mother 3 if I'd owned it.**

**Warning: Very dark themes and character suicide.**

Distorted

Grey haze. Grey haze is all that surrounds me. Grey haze is all I have behind and ahead of me. I can barely remember a time when everything was in colour and I had known the emotion called happiness. But I can remember everything after when the grey haze settled like it was yesterday.

I remember my terror as my mother's screams rent the night. I remember the desperation I felt as I watched my brother go off to his death. I remember the pain of my father's fist connecting with my ribs and how his drunken, slurred yelling pierced my ears. I remember bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders, a weight I had never asked for and everyone had expected me without a second thought to take. I remember the power surging through me as I pulled the golden rod out of the ground. And finally, I remember holding Claus's charred body close to me as I sobbed his name and breathed in every last trace of his smell that was mixed with the acrid stench of burning flesh.

These memories are the only thing clear in the distorted world I live in. Yet they torment me. At night, I lie awake, clutching my blankets tightly as the faces of the people I had failed to protect materialise in and out of the fog. "Why didn't you protect me Lucas?" they would say. "Why are you such a worthless, cowardly, selfish child?" "Why can't you be more like your brother, Lucas?" "Why..." "Why..." "Why..."

In rare occurrences when I actually manage to fall asleep, they continue to torment me through my dreams. I often find myself waking up from a nightmare of my brother's ghastly face and his blank, accusing eyes drenched in cold sweat. Then I see the faces again in the grey fog. It's like an endless nightmare. Sometimes, out of nowhere I break down and scream and sob. When I look in the mirror, I see a shell of a person, his blonde hair dirty and unkempt, his eyes hollow and haunted, with shadows under them, his entire body skin and bones. This is what I have become.

Time passes sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Everything outside my world of grey fog is distorted, far away. I don't think I have emotions anymore. I hear what everyone says about me, and I don't care. Before the time of the grey haze, I would have broken down in tears, and _he_, my brother, my twin, the person I would share my entire being with would defend me and comfort me. Now, when I finally have the capability to defend myself, I don't have the energy to care.

My father ignores me. He has given up on me. He has moved on. After I pulled the needle and restored the world to the way it was before the Pigmasks came, he tried to talk me out of my room, to encourage me to interact with others. He had even apologised to me about the way he acted in those three terrible years when all I had to remind me of my old life was torn down. But my mind was already too long gone.

My so-called 'friends' used to visit me on a daily basis, trying to bring me out of my world, but every time they came, I would sit, immobile on my bed, staring blankly at the wall, or what seemed to me to be the faces of my dead family members in the grey fog. They stopped visiting me after that.

I have no one left anymore. My sanity has slipped away. Even I know this myself. The hero who saved Nowhere Islands, broken down, insane and unstable. Why don't they just throw me in a loony bin already?

I feel so tired. Like I can barely lift my limbs. The end is coming soon, I know. My wrists are covered in unhealed scars. Some are still bleeding, a slow ooze of dark red onto my white bed sheets. I have cut myself so many times over and over again in the exact same spots that I have sealed my fate for sure.

Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, waiting willingly for my own death, the only thing that can heal me now seems a pathetic way to die. Call me a coward all you want. I am taking the easy way out. And when they find my pale, limp body, dry of the red life essence, that will surely be exactly what they will say and think.

**A/N: Why do my stories always not turn out the way I want them? I didn't even plan for Lucas to kill himself! I WILL do a happy fic next, I promise! Review? Pleeeeeeeeaaaaase?**


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